


The Sacred Art of Balance

by colonel_bastard



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Culture, Doubt, Fables - Freeform, Family, Fear, Gen, Ishbal | Ishval, Religion, Scripture References, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-15 04:49:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4593444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colonel_bastard/pseuds/colonel_bastard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They give their lives to Ishbala, and in return, Ishbala gives them life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sacred Art of Balance

**Author's Note:**

> I was always fascinated by the fact that Scar was originally a priest. I was frustrated, however, by the general lack of information about the Ishbalan religion and its intricacies. Desperate to indulge my religious obsession, I ended up creating my own. All fables, scripture, and proverbs contained in this story are my design! 
> 
> It felt disrespectful to try and name them, so Scar is our "young priest" and all other characters are defined by their relation to him.

-

-

-

He wakes up long before sunrise. It used to be a challenge to wake so early, but years of practice have turned it into more than a habit— it is simply how he lives. The air is still cool and dry with the remnants of night, but it won’t last long. Once the sun appears and begins to climb, the temperature will increase at a matching rate, until both have reached their peak at high noon.

He yawns and scratches the back of his neck, then goes into his morning stretches, eyes closed in concentration. Hands flat against the dusty floor— _Ishbala, grant me courage._ Hands stretched towards the ceiling— _Ishbala, grant me wisdom._ Hands reaching for opposite walls— _Ishbala, grant me patience._ Hands pressed together before his heart— _Ishbala, grant your blessing upon this day._

Morning ablutions are swift and practiced— splash of water to the back of the neck, face, eyes, mouth— and he is clean for prayer. The sun has just appeared at the horizon and he turns to face it. From below him in the temple he can hear his master’s mighty voice call, _Avadah, Ishbala!_ Praise to Ishbala! He repeats the mantra to himself in a murmur, bowed forehead resting on clasped hands. He can hear the call being answered from a hundred different voices, and it fills him with a deep and lasting joy.

When prayers are complete, he puts on his robe and the sash that identifies him as a priest. A distant rumble— he freezes in place, ears straining for further detail. It sounded like an explosion— _please, no, not here, not yet_ — and he holds his breath against it. The heavy silence of early morning settles once more over the city, and the threat has passed over.

For now.

\- - -

_Avadah, Ishbala!_   
_Praise to Ishbala, oh mighty God,_   
_Giver of life, death, and all within._   
_Those who follow Him, follow the light,_   
_And those who walk the righteous path will never fall._

_— The Book of the Prophet_

\- - -

They prepare the temple for the day. Master walks the great central chamber with two baskets, one empty and one filled with candles. He goes to the beautiful brass stands and removes the old remnants of wax, burned away to almost nothing, and places them in the empty basket. New candles are put up in their place. The fragments that he collects will not go to waste— once the basket is full, it will be melted down to make new. In this land, they can’t afford to discard anything.

His apprentice, meanwhile, fetches fresh water from the well, carrying the bucket cautiously through the temple to refill the basins that worshipers use for their ablutions. He takes great care not to spill a single drop on the fine carpet under his bare feet.

The work takes longer than it should, but there aren’t as many of them as there used to be. Too many of its children have gone to war and the temple must get by with only a master and his apprentice, instead of the numerous clerics that once filled its chambers with love and care. True, these tasks could easily be given to some of the many novices that they have taken in the past few months, but both of these men believe that the temple deserves to be tended by those who know it best, those who know this holy place better than any childhood home. It is an honor to bear this burden, and yet the memory of crowded halls does not fade easily.

“There are too few of us,” the young priest says, wiping sweat from his brow after his third trip with the heavy water.

“Patience, _akhi tala,_ ” Master says. “When the well dries up, Ishbala sends the rain.”

The apprentice takes special care to study the sky on his last trip to the well. To the east— empty, endless blue, almost too blue to look at, sparkling with sunlight. To the west— more of the same, except for a horizon speckled with smoke, the herald of things to come. Overhead— only the sun. Not a cloud in sight, let alone a rain cloud. He knows his master spoke only a proverb, but he craves any sign that Ishbala will soon come to their aid.

\- - -

_Ishbala is strict, but He is never unfair. He loves His children, but He is not gentle with them. He asks much of those who would follow Him, but never more than they can give. They give their lives to Ishbala, and in return, Ishbala gives them life._

_— The Book of the Prophet_

\- - -

Master and apprentice, side by side, naked to the waist and barefoot. With one movement synchronized by years of familiarity, they drop their hands to the stone floor and roll their feet into the air behind them. The master is not so flexible as he once was and he settles himself into a traditional handstand, his eyes closed for meditation. The apprentice, still young and lithe, arches his back and turns up his head, so that feet reach down towards crown.

They breathe.

Patience. Focus. The sacred art of balance. Serenity. Clarity. They do not feel tired, they do not feel weak. Ishbala holds them in place with such steadiness that they could place one finger on the tip of a needle and remain upright.

“Our God is steadfast,” the master says.

“Praise to Ishbala,” the apprentice replies.

“Our God is true.”

“Praise to Ishbala.”

“Our God is just.”

“Praise to Ishbala.”

They could stand like this for a hundred years, but they both know that the temple might not be standing a month from now.

\- - -

_The fool says, “There will be no rain!” But the wise man prepares for the flood._

_— Ishbalan proverb_

\- - -

In the afternoon, it is time for lessons. Master takes the novices into the central chamber to practice the sacred art of war— training the body to drive through pain and move with swiftness and surety, guided by the hand of the Lord. The apprentice sits in the open pillared gallery at the front of the temple, surrounded by his own students, the children. The temple is the primary center of education in the city, but he is the only other priest besides his master with enough experience to teach. Lamentably, as the number of teachers has grown smaller, so has the number of students. The symmetry of the world remains unbroken.

He teaches balance. Before they can master it with their minds and hearts, they must learn it with their bodies. The children all take an empty basket in each hand and stand with their arms outstretched, bright-eyed little scales, eager to learn.

“Balance,” says the priest, “is the essence of a world at peace.”

He goes around the circle, putting a weight in every other basket— helplessly, the students tilt to the left, undone by the inequality.

“No, no,” he urges. “Keep your arms level.”

They attempt to obey, but it’s no use. One by one they give up, some exasperated, some disappointed in themselves, and others angry at the unfairness of the task. When each child has finally surrendered, he gathers them around him for the true lesson. They sit in a cluster, wearing expressions that vary from skeptical to curious.

“The world,” he explains, “is like a disk resting on a fine point. Great care must be taken not to let it tip in any direction, or all will be lost.”

Some nod their heads in understanding, others shake them in confusion.

“All right,” he says. “How did it feel when you couldn’t hold your arms level?”

“Bad.”

“Wrong.”

“That’s right,” the priest nods. “Now, imagine trying to live that way. It would be impossible to eat more than we harvest, or milk more goats than we own. Everything must be equal in order for life to go on. That is the will of Ishbala, and that is why we must all learn the sacred art of balance.”

The children don’t yet grasp the importance of this teaching— it takes the wisdom of years to bring clarity. God willing, they will all live long enough.

\- - -

_Raise up a child on the path of truth, and when he is grown he will not wander._

_— The Book of the Prophet_

\- - -

Mother comes to visit him at the temple, and he couldn’t be happier. When he sees her, his heart leaps within him, reaching for her, reaching for the years when he was a boy and she was his world entire. In front of the novices who respect him so much, he is the picture of poise and control, nodding to her in polite greeting. Every instinct in his body screams, _run to her_ , but he forces himself to approach her at a dignified pace. With a hand on her elbow, he guides her around the corner and out of sight of the others, and as soon as they’re alone he sweeps her up in his arms and holds her close. She throws her arms around his neck and he’s a child again.

“My boy,” she murmurs in his ear. “My boy.”

He closes his eyes and sighs, “Mother.”

They pull back to arm’s length and each one studies the other. His heart aches when he sees the toll the years have taken on her. The shadows of war and worry are cast deep across her face. It’s a toll he might not notice if he saw her every day, but when weeks go by between their meetings, the changes seem stark and startling. He knows that she feels the same way— her eyes are soft with nostalgia and sadness as she sees how much older he is, how much stronger, how much more a man than when last they met. She fusses with his sash and pats his chest in approval.

“There,” she says fondly. “Look at you.”

“It’s good to see you,” he says, and means it.

“We’d like to see you more often,” she gives him a pointed look. “Your father and I, not to mention your—“

“I have duties here,” he interrupts. “They need me. My master—“

“Your master can manage for one evening on his own.” Her tone is a bit too sharp, and she softens it before she continues. “Please, join us for supper tonight. It’s been too long since you shared our table.”

She looks so sad, and he is struck with the sudden fear that he might never see her again. It’s ridiculous, of course— the war is still miles away to the west. But the very idea of her absence gives him a chill, and he puts his hands on her shoulders to assure himself that she is still there.

“All right,” he says. “I’ll come.”

She smiles, and for a moment, nothing else matters.

\- - -

_Be thankful every day for the father who made you and the mother who bore you._

_— Ishbalan proverb_

\- - -

He instructs the children to form as perfect a circle as they can. They shuffle about on the stone floor, some of the more aggressive boys giving directions to the more submissive ones. The priest encourages them to join hands and all step back until the boundary pulls taut. Then they all sit down, legs crossed neatly, watching attentively as their teacher places a small pan of incense at the center before taking his place in the border of the ring.

“The circle is the symbol of perfect balance,” he says. “The center is an equal distance from every point of the perimeter. Every time we find a perfect circle in the world around us, it is Ishbala’s way of reminding us to keep His holy order.”

“What do you mean?” One boy asks.

“Come close to me.” The priest instructs. “Now, look into my eyes. Do you see?”

The boy studies and smiles in understanding, “Yes.”

“At the center, a perfect circle of black. Beyond that, a perfect circle of red. And if you could see the eye itself as a whole, you would see that it is a circle as well.” He gestures at all of the children around him. “Every one of you carries the holy circle with you wherever you go. Whenever you look into the eyes of your brothers and sisters, you will remember that Ishbala has created you as part of the perfect balance of the world.”

The children turn to look at each other, and they can all see the perfection of Ishbala reflected back at them from the gazes of their classmates. The priest remembers the first time he looked into the eyes of his brother and saw God, and it fills him with an emotion that he can’t quite describe.

\- - -

_Earth and sky,_   
_Big and small,_   
_Day and night,_   
_God made all._

_— Ishbalan children’s rhyme_

\- - -

He hesitates at the threshold of his own home, and he hates himself for doing so. Soft voices within, warm light and the smell of good food— and he wonders if he deserves it, wonders if he should just go back to the temple for bread and water and respectful silence. To enjoy the company of his family when so many he knows have lost so much— it feels like a sin. He forces his doubts to the back of his mind and steps inside, and when he sees his parents waiting for him, he forgets the rest.

“My son!” His father beams, embracing him with pride. “Welcome home!”

The prodigal son approaches his mother, working on the meal, and kisses the top of her head. She makes a sound of contentment. His father pulls out a chair for him and he sits at the table that seems smaller than he remembers.

“Your brother is still at his study,” Mother explains, “But he should be home soon.”

The young priest tries to disguise the nervousness on his face, but his father sees it anyway. He chuckles in amusement.

“Our very own Baqi and Du’a,” he grins. “I can hardly remember the last time you two managed to stay in the same room for more than ten minutes.”

“Baqi and Du’a is a children’s tale,” the son mutters. “And a cautionary one, not meant to be imitated.”

“Then why do you do so?” Father becomes serious, and the son cannot answer.

Mother sings a soft, familiar song as she cooks, and he is comforted by this more than any hymn.

It can’t last forever— his brother returns and an awkward silence immediately strangles everyone in the room. He realizes that his brother was not informed that he would be joining them tonight, and the long moment of silent, prolonged eye contact between the two of them is excruciating.

Then his brother claps his hands together and bows. “It’s an honor to have you in our humble home, oh Holy One.”

Against his will, he rises to the bait and snaps, “The honor is mine, to be in the presence of the great scholar of Ishbal.”

Father stands and spreads his hands in warning. “That’s enough. I will not have two brothers quarrel in my home.”

The two look at their mother, her eyes silently pleading. They look at each other and nod in an unspoken truce, then sit at opposite ends of the table and say nothing while their father makes small talk about the goats and the weather and anything but the war. He manages to fill the silence for a while, but eventually, it slips out.

“I heard that Faruq lost his boy,” he mentions, then immediately winces.

“Perhaps he should have prayed harder,” the older son remarks.

“Watch your tongue.” The younger growls, no longer a son but a priest.

“I can’t just let it be. The war grows closer every day and our leaders tell us to bow our heads and wait.”

“Peace and patience— we cannot have one without the other.”

“Ah, I see.” Older brother leans back and crosses his arms. “We patiently wait for both sides to exterminate each other.”

“And what would you have us do— fight them with books? With knowledge?” Younger brother leans forward to keep the distance equal. “You squander your days in idle pursuits, reading and scribbling nonsense, while our people—“

“And you’re fighting the good fight, are you? Cowering in the temple, stuffing your ears with prayer to drown out the screams of a dying nation—“

The priest leaps to his feet, fists slamming to the table in rage. “I said watch your tongue! Our nation will never die. Not as long as I’m alive.”

“Impudent boy!” The scholar waves him away as though they were both still children, scuffling in the street. “You think you can carry the weight of Ishbal on your shoulders? You couldn’t hold it for a day!”

“Longer than you could, weakling!”

“Slave!”

He is less than a second away from overturning the table and throttling the smug look off that bastard’s face, when his mother lays a hand on his arm and says, “Please.”

He looks down at her and feels so ashamed. Heat flushes the back of his neck and his fists unfold into trembling hands. He looks at his father, who looks away in disappointment. He looks at his brother, who challenges him with every breath. Calmly, he removes his mother’s hand from his arm.

“I’m going to take my meal at the temple,” he says, then adds cruelly, “With my brothers.”

He kisses his mother and walks out into the cool night air. His heart wrenches, and for a moment he believes that the pain will kill him— but as his master taught him, he endures.

\- - -

_A long time ago, there were two brothers named Baqi and Du’a. They lived in the sky and were always together, so much so that the stars would often remark that they had never seen one without the other. If Baqi went somewhere, Du’a was at his side. If Du’a was somewhere, then Baqi was nearby. Although they loved each other very much, the brothers were also very different. Baqi was fiery and quick-tempered, while Du’a was quiet and shy. Still, as different as they were from each other, their love was equal._

_One day, the brothers got into a terrible quarrel. The fight lasted for three days and the whole of the heavens trembled with the force of it. Their anger was so great that Baqi swore he would never speak to his brother again, and Du’a swore the same. They broke apart, and the collapse of such a great love changed the world. Baqi became the Sun, and Du’a became the Moon. By day, Baqi wanders the sky, consumed with an anger so fierce that it burns the eyes of anyone who looks at him. By night, Du’a follows the same path, and though his anger is quieter, it is no less potent._

_While Baqi crosses the sky above, Du’a passes below the earth, and the journey is so long and lonely that he begins to feel regret. He decides to apologize to Baqi and end their feud. But when he appears at the horizon and sees his brother at the other end of the sky, Baqi turns his back and goes under the earth. Du’a spends the night getting angry all over again. Meanwhile, under the earth, Baqi feels so lonely that he decides to apologize and end the feud. When he sees Du’a in the morning, his brother has become so angry again that he turns his back and goes into the darkness. Then Baqi spends the whole day consumed with wrath. When Du’a returns in the evening, ready to apologize, it’s too late, and the circle continues._

_Their feud has lasted for a thousand years— so long that neither of them remembers how it even started. The stars speak in a whisper of how it used to be when the two brothers wandered the sky side by side. They miss Baqi and wish that Du’a could be happy. Every once in a while, a star will become so saddened by the story that it will fall from the sky, too heartbroken to hold itself in the heavens. Perhaps the two will be able forgive each other, but until then, they will chase each other around the earth, and we will have night and day because of a foolish vow made between brothers._

_— Ishbalan fable_

\- - -

“Brother! Brother!”

He turns too quickly with too eager of a smile on his face, but the hopeful voice does not come from his true brother. It comes from one of the novices— a brother in title only. He forces an expression of polite friendliness onto his face and greets the younger man with the traditional embrace. His arms are full, but his heart feels hollow.

_Akhi rama_ , the boy calls him— _big brother_. His throat tightens but he nods his head. The novice wants him to join them for lessons soon, give a demonstration as one of the last warrior-priests left in the city. He agrees to come but is wracked with guilt— the others who bear his title have gone to the front lines to fight and yet he remains here, hiding behind the marble pillars, praying that war will never reach him. He knows how to fight but is unable to fulfill his duties. He is only half of a man— a priest, but not a warrior.

\- - -

_And on that day our God will sound the call to arms, and a warrior will rise from the heart of every man whose faith is true._

_— The Book of the Prophet_

\- - -

“Now that you have learned balance with your body,” the young priest says to his students. “You must learn it with your heart. Harmony does not exist only in the world around us— it exists within us as well.”

The children are sitting in the circle that they are now accustomed to forming every day. They have become quite good at it, moving with swiftness and precision to their appointed places. It warms his heart to see his students improving. It assures him that his work is not all in vain.

“These are the words our God spoke to the First Prophet,” he says, and makes the sacred sign with his right hand.

“ _Avadah, Ishbala_ ,” the children respond dutifully.

“Listen. _Those who kill will be killed. Those who steal will be stolen from. And those who hate will be hated._ Do you see?”

“The holy circle,” one student volunteers.

“That’s right.” He agrees. “Every action in life will cause a reaction. The balance of the world is maintained in all things.”

And then one boy mutters, “The world is already out of balance. It can never be restored.”

The priest shivers involuntarily and says, “What?”

The boy sits up and says in a louder voice, “My father says that there is no balance, that Ishbala has given up and left the world to tilt and fall.”

“That— that’s not true.” He suddenly feels very young and unprepared. “There is a plan. We simply can’t— we are not meant to understand it.”

“Why would He let this happen? The war? How does that keep the world in balance?”

Darkness swarms up through him and blinds him. His voice is stolen and his hands feel numb. Then, as if summoned by God himself, his master is there, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“The will of Ishbala is mysterious to His children,” he intones solemnly, and his voice brooks no argument. “We cannot know His true mind.”

The children accept this with a grumble of discontent. The young priest looks into his master’s eyes for strength. He sees the holy circle— black, red, and beyond— and it gives him the courage to believe for one more day.

\- - -

_What man can know the heart of Ishbala? What man can hold back the seasons or command the sun to rise?_

_— The Book of the Prophet_

\- - -

He knows he shouldn’t go. He knows it will only end in a fight. But heartache clouds his thinking, and he visits his brother’s study motivated by the lonely desire to see him again. When he gingerly sticks his head through the doorway, he hears the voices of several men. His brother is holding court, sharing his knowledge with a new group of friends. They are content in their own world.

Without announcing his presence, the priest quietly slips back out the way he came.

The walk back to the temple is eerie and desolate. He longs to be a child again, to wander the streets with his big brother as his guide, trusting him with everything. Those days seem faded, like books that have been doused in water— the ink runs, and the words and pictures begin to blur until they are no longer recognizable. He remembers feeling safe. He wonders if he will ever feel safe again.

And yet the threat was there— he can still recall the sight of Amestrian soldiers, a supposedly benign presence that nonetheless frightened him even then. It was their eyes— unnatural shades of blue and green and brown, colors meant for the earth and not for the eyes. The soldiers were usually cordial enough, but there was something about the way they would look at him and his brother, as though they were looking at wild animals or even creatures in captivity. The memory of that look— that calm, condescending stare— causes him to clench his fists in anger.

Now he walks the street alone. There are no more Amestrian soldiers— but there is no more brother, either. He is not allowed to have one without enduring the other. Harmony must be kept.

\- - -

_The Lord sees the world from a thousand places, and no deed can remain hidden from His eyes._

_— The Book of the Prophet_

\- - -

“In the sacred art of war,” the master announces. “We must give our bodies to Ishbala. We are the sword and He is the hand that wields it.”

The novices look on in approval as their _akhi rama_ , the prized apprentice, removes his outer robe, leaving him bare-chested. He bows to his master and turns to the others, holding out a beckoning hand in challenge.

One young man steps forward and the dance begins. It can truly only be described as a dance— though the novice swings and kicks with all his might, the priest effortlessly evades him, pivoting as gracefully as a cat around every attempted strike. Then he rises like a cobra and deals a sharp blow with the side of his hand against the back of the novice’s neck. The young mans drops to the floor, stunned.

They come one by one, and each one is dispatched with efficiency and ease. He looks deep within himself— _Ishbala, give me wisdom_ — and follows the will of the Lord. He can feel his master watching with approval, and this helps him focus and persevere. The smell of incense and the feel of the rich carpet under his bare feet help him stay grounded and keep the world clear and real. It is a delicate balance between maintaining an awareness of his own body and abandoning himself to Ishbala entirely.

The chamber is still again. The novices have all fallen by his hand. He bows to them, bows to his master, then bows towards the altar and murmurs, “My humble thanks, oh mighty Lord.”

He receives no answer.

\- - -

_Then the Lord will come upon you, and you will feel His hand as surely as your feet rest upon the earth._

_— The Book of the Prophet_

\- - -

He sits at the base of the blessed pillar, his back pressed against the gentle, familiar curve of the stone. This column was put up far from the temple, in an open place. When he arrived this morning, he took his place seated in the shadow it cast. As time passed, the sun rolled across the sky, and the shadow that was upon him moved away. He sits in the burning light of the day, eyes closed in concentration. This is a place meant for profound meditation. He will stay here until the sun finishes its journey and the shadow returns to him, completing the circle.

Sweat beads on his brow and his skin aches with the heat. He looks inward and leaves his body behind. His chosen mantra for the day— _The heart of a man is weak, but the heart of Ishbala endures forever_ — echoes in his mind. He grapples with the Holy Word. If the heart of Ishbala endures forever, does that not mean that it will continue to thrive with or without the presence of His people? What stake does Ishbala have in the suffering of His children if their fate has no effect on His own? The young priest struggles to understand. Clarity ebbs and flows around him, at times close enough to touch, and at times only a distant glimmer.

He is jolted back into the present when someone sits down on the opposite side of the pillar. It’s not unheard of and it’s not improper, so he decides to leave whoever it is to their own thoughts and retreat back into his own. His focus is broken again when his companion fidgets uncomfortably. This is no priest— it’s someone who was never trained to be still.

“Hello, brother,” says the voice of the only man who has a right to call him by that name.

His eyes open and he stares ahead, allowing himself to smile because his face is hidden from the other. “How did you know where to find me?”

“This is where you come when your burdens are too great. No one could find you after Grandmother died, but even then, I knew where to look.”

He remembers that day, and remembers how much it meant to him that his brother came to console him even though the older boy was hurting just the same.

“Does it comfort you, brother?” wonders the scholar. “This holy place?”

“Yes,” he says honestly. “I feel close to the Lord.”

“Hmm,” says the other, with a certain note of longing. “And does He tell you His mind? Has He revealed the meaning of the war?”

The priest feels an angry retort build on instinct, but then it crumbles and he admits, “No.”

“A world out of balance.”

“Sometimes it seems that way.”

“And I say,” older brother remarks, “Is that wrong?”

He must hear his younger brother start to rise, because he quickly continues, “Now, now, hear me out. I mean no disrespect to Ishbala. But sometimes, even perfect balance doesn’t seem like the best way for the world.”

“And what would you suggest?”

“Tip the scale in the favor of good.”

“Impossible.”

“I don’t think so. If it is our responsibility to maintain the balance of the world, do we not have the power to upset the balance? And if we chose to do it in the direction of goodness, would that not mean that the world could contain more good than bad?”

“Gain without sacrifice is the way of the devil. You know this.”

“No, I don’t. I don’t believe that can be true.” His brother sounds so confident, so brave. “I believe that the world does not have to be equal. I believe it can be better.”

“I can’t— you mustn’t talk like this.” He can hear his own voice, and it just sounds so frightened. “It’s blasphemy, brother. You disrespect Ishbala and the temple.”

There is a brief silence, and then the older one says, “I hear that your master calls you _akhi tala_. ‘ _Little brother_.’ How could I not feel resentment against the temple?”

“Don’t tell me it’s my fault.” He squeezes his eyes shut against the guilt. “Don’t tell me that you’ve strayed because of me.”

“It’s not your fault, little brother,” the scholar says softly. “ _Every man must follow his own path_. Isn’t that what the Prophet says?”

“Yes.”

“Then we must both do what we believe to be right.”

“I’ll pray for you.” He feels a fool, but it’s the best he has to offer.

“Pray for our people. They need you now.”

The priest sits and tries to calm his restless spirit. When he is unable to do so, he breaks his position and twists around to see his brother, but the other man has already walked away. All he sees is sand and sky. He resumes his post, back against the pillar, gaze turned inward. He has forgotten his chosen mantra. All he can hear is the wind.

\- - -

_Beware the gift given freely— it comes from Muradh, who lures you in with the promise of prosperity unearned. Seek the prize for which you must strive, for it is the will of Ishbala that no man may gain without first giving._

_— The Book of the Prophet_

\- - -

Patience. Focus. The sacred art of balance.

Alone in his bedchamber, he drops his hands to the floor and rolls his feet up behind him. He arches his back and allows himself to sink into position, feet reaching down towards head, arms like pillars into the floor.

He whispers aloud, “Our God is steadfast. Our God is true.”

Balance. When he thinks too hard about it, it melts away like a desert mirage. Ishbala has taken away his true brother, but He has given him dozens of new brothers in return. It should work, it should complete the circle— but his heart tells him that it doesn’t, not even close. The war rages on and the people of Ishbal bleed out in the sand, and in return, Ishbala gives them— what? What do they receive for their loyalty and patience and trust? Funerals? Widows? Orphans? That isn’t harmony, that’s chaos, it’s madness, it’s unfair— so monstrously unfair, to all of them, His children, His weeping children who beg for guidance and salvation—

His arms shake. He reaches for serenity, for clarity. It slips through his fingers like water through a sieve. His center breaks loose and he falls, landing hard on the stone floor.

He lies there. He doesn’t have the strength to rise.

\- - -

_Then the skeptic will say, “See, there is no God.” But the believer will stay silent and hold the truth in his heart._

_— The Book of the Prophet_

\- - -

They prepare the temple for the day. The silence of early morning is like a heavy weight on their shoulders. The apprentice lingers by the ornate basin he has just filled, running his fingers over the fine craftsmanship.

“I’ve heard that the Amestrians have been looting the temples.” His voice trembles, on the verge of tears. “Desecrating our most sacred artifacts.”

He thinks of this holy basin, from which he has washed himself before prayer for a lifetime. He imagines it in the hands of men who know not what they hold, who think of it as just a bowl, just a trophy of war. It makes him sick to his stomach, and he swallows hard to prevent any bile from rising.

“Master,” he says weakly. “I don’t know what to do.”

“ _Akhi tala_ ,” says his master. “You must have faith.”

“But I can’t see the way.” He grits his teeth in pain. “The war is so close I can hear it in my dreams. The parents of my students demand that I abandon balance and teach their children the art of war. They say that balance can’t help them anymore.”

“In dark days, the will of Ishbala is distant and difficult to understand.” His master stands before him, places a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “A man could go mad if he fights it. Clear your mind and have patience.”

“Patience won’t save our people!” He almost chokes on the emotion— the love, the anger, the fear. “Patience won’t save our nation!”

“Then you must accept that our nation may not be saved.”

He steps away, cold inside. “How can you say that?”

“Everything must come to an end.” Master suddenly looks so old, so tired. “It is the prayer of every generation that it will not happen in their lifetime.”

The young priest closes his eyes and whispers, “I don’t want it to be the end.”

Overwhelmed, his master pulls him into his arms, and the apprentice answers with an embrace of equal desperation.

“It is a terrible burden to witness to the death of a nation,” the master says fiercely. “But you must be strong. You must endure.”

They stand like that for a long time, allowing themselves to weep in each other’s presence because they cannot weep in the presence of their people. For the sake of their people, they must be strong. For the sake of their people, they must survive.

\- - -

_The coward tells the world when he suffers, but the brave man tells no one._

_— Ishbalan proverb_

\- - -

It gets cold at night. He pulls the cloak tighter around him, puts his head down, and presses into the wind. Sometimes, the temple closes in around him. Sometimes, the open sky calls to him like a voice from the past. It’s dark and dangerous on the outskirts of the city, but it’s dark and dangerous in his heart, so it feels like home.

It’s so quiet that he imagines he can hear the gunfire from miles away— it won’t be long before they’re here. He looks back at the city and wonders what it will look like as rubble. Tears sting his eyes but he won’t let them fall. He walks on.

At the edge of the desert, he looks at the stars. He demands that they all fall out of the sky in mourning for his people, but they remain steadfast in the heavens. He sits cross-legged in the sand and closes his eyes in meditation.

It is weakness to turn away from the Lord when times grow bleak. This could be the great test of his people, the crucible of history where Ishbalans are beaten but never broken. He won’t let himself be broken. He won’t let himself forget.

“ _Avadah, Ishbala_ ,” he whispers, and though his heart is close to breaking, the words give him strength.

The wisdom of his ancient homeland rises around him in the wind. He is no longer afraid. Let them ruin the temples, let them desecrate the most sacred places. All things of the earth must pass, but the soul of a nation cannot be destroyed by these men.

“ _Avadah, Ishbala!_ ” He calls into the night, daring the world to silence him.

There is peace in the arms of the Lord. There is justice in the eyes of Ishbala, and though He looks away for now, soon His gaze will return and it will smite those who have dared to raise their hands against His children. The people of Ishbal will look up and cry, _Father!_ And the young priest will weep and say, _I knew You would return to us. I knew._

\- - -

_When darkness falls, the coward clamors for light and the wicked man cries out for aid, but the righteous man reaches out his hand and trusts that Ishbala will take hold of it._

_— The Book of the Prophet_

 

_________end.


End file.
